


Under Cover of Darkness

by andreaphobia



Series: Bloodsport [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Gore, M/M, Vampires, feral vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-10
Updated: 2011-05-10
Packaged: 2018-11-21 16:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: The beautiful beginnings of Yamamoto's unlife.





	Under Cover of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Part of Lys's [Bloodsport](http://archiveofourown.org/series/8161) series.

 

_I don’t love you to death,_ _  
_ _but I’d die if you left._

 

The last memories of the man are of these things: agony and defeat. (Mortality, as it so happens, is a bitter pill to swallow.) The cloying stench of blood, only some of it his; the feel of it as it drips between shaking lips, scalding his throat all the way down to settle sick in his stomach. Flecks of torn flesh and a steady heartbeat on his tongue. The warring impulses of his body as it turns: bones knitting and cuts healing even as envenomed organs shut down, one by one. He arches taut, trembling, as his heart throbs in his chest one final time, then is still—and in the interval that follows, he quietly slips away.

*

These are the first memories of the watcher.

He notices the smell before anything else; his nostrils flare, bestial, as he takes it all in. Everywhere, all around him, the stench of the living—it fills this place, pulsing through all those warm bodies, bright through a haze of nameless feelings. He thinks only in emotions, in compulsions. _Hungry. Angry. Must feed. Must kill_. Swarming all around him are prey animals, slow-moving and stupid; their blood sings to him.

And then there is another—one like him, who stares at him unblinkingly, lips curled back to show his teeth, but not in a threat. Something else.

The thought is too long for him to finish, so he doesn’t.

Instead his eyes roam the field of battle, ceaselessly, searching for a body upon which he can vent his aggression, his newfound hunger. The weak little one standing before him holds his attention but for a moment—a resounding crash lures his gaze across the floor of the alley, where three figures grapple fiercely. Somewhere in the fray, he glimpses the flip of a long mane of hair, gleaming silver in the moonlight. At the sight of it, a name—or perhaps more accurately, a word-sound—dredged up from places unknown, comes tumbling out of his mouth in a snarl.

“ _Squalo._ ”

All else is forgotten. Swaying slightly, he rises to his feet, newly-mended limbs trembling with anticipation of the violence which is to come, and heaves himself into the battle without hesitation.

At some point—he’s not certain when—the other-who-is-like-him joins the fray. He no longer possesses any meaningful perception of time; the past is a blur, and the future is unfathomable. All that exists is the here and the now: movement, feeling, heat. The other-who-is-like-him is strong; he restrains their struggling prey single-handedly, without any visible effort, and with this opportunity presented to him, this fledgling watcher does not hesitate. He turns back the milky-white underbelly of the prey’s throat and tears it open in one deft motion, then lowers his head to let hot fluid spurt onto his tongue, staining his mouth crimson.

The eyes of the other remain on him as he does this, cool blue and alight with pleasure. But, lost in the joy of feeding, he cares not. All that matters is the way the struggling of the limbs of his prey gradually weakens—and its breathless, dying bleats, like a slaughtered sheep.

*

In the middle of a traditional, tatami-floored room, Kyouya sits in seiza, poised over a sheet of rice paper with a wolf’s-hair brush in his hand. In the next room, the fledgling dozes fitfully on a spare futon—recovering, no doubt, from the exertion of turning, and from the enjoyment of his first meal. Kyouya’s first fledgling, and most likely his last. After all, he’s never been one for the company of others, preferring to spend most of his time alone, whether patrolling his beloved Namimori or at rest. Yet he’d made an exception for this one—this hunter’s cub who, armed with nothing more than a baseball bat, had once bashed a vampire’s head in with such a manic, hyperfocused persistence that it became nothing more than a pathetic little smear across the ground.

In his own way, Kyouya had always thought highly of Yamamoto Tsuyoshi. He wasn’t half bad at what he did—for a mortal, anyway. And in the same fashion he’d taken an interest in the hunter’s cub, tailing him and his half-blooded companion on their ill-advised night-time excursions. At first this was done purely out of curiosity, or perhaps simply to relieve his boredom.

But it was impossible not to be moved, somehow, by what he saw. By those glimpses of brutality; by the raw _potential_ he saw there, the way the young Yamamoto’s eyes lit up at the suggestion of violence.

And then, after all that, he had lain there, bent and broken after Squalo had had his way with him; he’d looked up and said a single word with his dying breath, and Kyouya hadn’t hesitated at all—

Wanting something like this is an alien sensation, to Kyouya.

(He isn’t sure that he likes it.)

Night has fallen by the time he hears noises coming from the next room—the sound of someone moving, exploring, alert. He sets aside the brush, and gets to his feet. It is time.

He’s only mildly surprised when the fledgling enters the room; apparently he’s managed to retain the knowledge of how to work doors, even sliding ones. The fledgling stalks through the doorway, slinking along close to the ground like an animal. The moment he sets eyes upon Kyouya, he sinks into a defensive crouch, teeth bared in a snarl. And then, when Kyouya does not respond to this, the fledgling decides to attack.

It’s all quite amusing to him, really. Kyouya draws his hand back lazily and strikes, raking three raw red lines open diagonally from the fledgling’s cheekbone to the bottom of his jaw. (It’s a warning, but there won’t be a second one.)

The fledgling lets out a yelp, more surprise than pain or fear, as the gashes quickly seal themselves, and pulls back to crouch again, now studying Kyouya with a kind of bestial wariness. _Good_ , Kyouya thinks. At least he understands strength when he sees it. He feels a strange warmth welling up in his chest, and is confused to discover that it’s a sense of pride.

Thinking back upon his own time as a fledgling, Kyouya doesn’t remember being able to make sense of speech at all, until at least the third day. He doubts it will be much different for this one. So he doesn’t bother with words, instead baring his teeth with a soft, yet menacing hiss. The fledgling does not flinch, but neither does he rise to the challenge; instead, he meets Kyouya’s eyes but for a moment, and then turns his face aside, just enough to expose the vulnerable line of his throat.

For some reason, the sight of his submission pleases Kyouya—more than he’d expected it to. And when Kyouya makes a careless gesture towards him, and then turns to step out into the night, the fledgling follows him. It is enough.

*

It takes little effort to lead the fledgling to the outskirts of Byakuran’s territory, where the grunts and lackeys congregate, and just... well... point him in the right direction. Kyouya finds this approach quite handy, because it deals with several problems at once: the problem of keeping the fledgling fed and satisfied, the problem of his little revenge, and the problem of how to keep him from eating anyone terribly important.

In the lines and subtle movements of the fledgling’s body, Kyouya sees an imprint of his mortal father, as though his memories can reach across time. Already he glides through the dark by instinct, like predator stalking prey. It’s what he is, now; perhaps, what he was always meant to be.

Without using words, as if their very minds are linked, Kyouya teaches him to meld with the shadows, how to move swift and soundless; the ways of the watcher. He leads, the fledgling follows. It’s as simple as that.

They find some nameless stray scrounging in the back alley behind one of Byakuran’s clubs, and Kyouya stands back as the fledgling makes short work of him. It’s his first solo kill after having been turned, but it’s no contest at all. Stooping over the still-twitching body as it feebly attempts to regenerate, the fledgling feasts with relish. After a moment or two, Kyouya stalks over; the fledgling pauses in his eager feeding, looking up as his sire leans over him.

His mouth is wet and red, brown eyes bright with contentment. Quicker than the eye can follow, Kyouya’s hand flashes out, seizing the fledgling by the collar to drag him close. The fledgling voices his displeasure at this wordlessly, with grunts and growls, as he struggles against Kyouya’s iron grip. He stills at once, however, when Kyouya leans in, dragging a cool tongue over fevered flesh—lapping up the mess of gore which drips to the fledgling’s chin with a snarl of primal satisfaction.

Afterwards, with the urge to feed temporarily sated, he releases the fledgling. But instead of pulling away, the fledgling stares up at Kyouya like he’s seeing him for the first time. There’s a strange fire burning in the fledgling’s eyes; an expression that makes something dark and possessive unfurl in the pit of Kyouya’s stomach. But he restrains himself.

Later. He’ll deal with it later.

The fledgling continues to watch him, still and curious, his head cocked to one side as though he’s straining to hear instructions from far away. Kyouya bares his teeth in an expression which is almost, but not quite, a smile, and speaks the first words that he has to the fledgling since he’d been turned. No matter if he doesn’t understand them now—Kyouya will _make_ him understand.

“You are _mine_.”

His voice is low, almost a growl. The fledgling blinks once, and then cautiously, tentatively, pulls his lips back from his teeth, exposing just the points of his incisors. Pleased by this, Kyouya reaches out, touching the fledgling’s bloodied cheek for just a moment before turning away. He doesn’t look to see if the fledgling is following him—but he doesn’t have to, for that is the nature of their bond.

*

It doesn’t take long for the other shoe to fall. The moment Sawada sets foot within the compound, Kyouya senses him. It’s impossible _not_ to, what with the amount of power Sawada conceals within that tiny frame.

Were he younger, less in control of himself and his baser instincts, experiencing such an intrusion into his territory might unsettle him. But he’s long since mastered them, and as it is, Sawada’s presence merely serves as a greeting, like ringing the doorbell.

Kyouya meets Sawada at the gate; leads him to the tatami-floored room which opens out onto the garden, that little room where he spends most of his time at home. He pours the sake and allows Sawada to pour for him, as is customary, and together they drink.

Once the first taste of liquor has gone down smoothly, and he has set his cup aside, then—and only then—does he speak.

“What brings you here?”

Sawada sighs, loosening his tie as though coming home after a long day at the office. “You know why I’m here, Kyouya.” He looks up. His face betrays no particular anger, but Kyouya knows how little that means in the grand scheme of things. “Why did you do this thing?”

Drawn by the sound of voices, the fledgling trots in from his room next door, like a dog curious about his master’s visitors. Enough time has passed that the fledgling has begun to respond to speech, though not in any particular way that betrays understanding. Though he enters at ease, the mere sight of Sawada reels a growl out of the fledgling, who bares his teeth, flattening himself against the wall. Moving quickly, Kyouya interposes himself between them, throat rumbling in a wordless, warning snarl.

Sawada doesn’t seem remotely surprised at how they growl and snap at each other, like animals. In fact, he looks as though he’d more or less expected this. It irritates Kyouya, a little, that knowing half-smile he wears as he sips from his cup.

Sawada did always like playing the know-it-all.

Cowed into submission, the fledgling slinks sulkily from the room, and Kyouya takes his seat once more.

“He’s... lost his voice, for the moment,” he says, as though this needs pointing out.

“I can see that,” replies Sawada, mildly. “I also see you’ve learned how to deal with him in the interim.”

“We have our ways of communicating,” Kyouya allows.

Polite as ever, Sawada favors him with a curt smile. “In any case, he’ll be needing a guardian... of sorts.” He makes a small gesture with his hand; the fledgling shrinks back at the movement, growling softly. “Someone who will keep him in check.”

Kyouya bristles at the insinuation.

“I have been,” he says, and this time can’t quite keep the edge out of his voice.

For a while, Sawada simply considers him. This is another one of his many annoying habits, and Kyouya detests it—the way he stares people down as though he’s taking them to pieces in his mind, studying each bit to find out how it works before putting it all back together.

He seems almost to be waiting for something: an apology, or perhaps a confession of sins. But since he must know that Kyouya would never do such a thing, the only conclusion he can come to is that Sawada is doing this solely to annoy him.

Eventually, Sawada raises his eyebrows.

“You’ll be taking the care of your fledgling in hand, then?”

“Obviously.” Kyouya snorts, as though the reply itself is beneath him. “You needn’t concern yourself with this.”

“—Be that as it may,” Sawada continues, smoothly ignoring Kyouya’s discourteousness, “I must insist that you bring him by for the occasional visit, once he’s been... er... resocialized. As excellent as your upbringing—or lack of one—may have been, I would strongly prefer that Tsuyoshi’s son be given a proper education.”

Out of respect for Sawada, Kyouya decides to mull this over instead of rejecting it outright. While he’s rather proud of his unconventional beginnings, he is aware—at least, peripherally—that it differed somewhat from the established way of doing things. More to the point, there are hills he's interested in dying on (Namimori’s, for instance), but this isn't one of them.

At last, he gives a single, short nod, and Sawada responds with one of his own, looking pleased.

“Thank you,” Sawada says, and even sounds like he means it. “I think this is for the best.”

Kyouya does not respond, but with their business concluded, the tension bleeds from the room. They sit back to enjoy their liquor, and in no time at all, the bottle is drained dry.

Over the last cup of sake, Sawada catches his eye. He looks as though he has something on his mind; Kyouya does not press him, but merely waits for him to speak. This takes time, and by the time it happens Kyouya has already emptied his cup.

“—It’s been a while since we last shared, hasn’t it?” Sawada begins, delicately.

Despite everything, a little thrill runs down Kyouya’s spine at those words. It _has_ been a while, and honestly, what with all that’s been going on, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. It’s mostly the care of the fledgling, of course, that’s occupied his time, given that it’s basically a full-time job.

As such, it’s been too long since his last good, truly satisfying meal, and he can’t deny the excitement he feels now at the prospect of one. So he crosses the floor, and kneels beside Sawada, who, smiling slightly, offers him a wrist without the faintest hesitation. Delicately, Kyouya holds it, marveling at the contrast of its appearance to the strength that he can feel lying within.

Then he lowers his mouth, and gently nicks the flesh with a fang.

The scent of Sawada’s blood, hot and heady, rapidly fills the air, and from the neighboring room they hear a yelp. Footsteps follow, and then the sound of a sliding door being dragged back, frantically.

Kyouya whirls about, still keeping a possessive hold on Sawada’s wrist, and bares bloodied teeth in the fledgling’s direction to warn him off. Startled by this show of force, the fledgling emits a high, keening sound, as of an animal in distress—he has never been forbidden from sharing a meal with Kyouya before, and he does not understand. But Kyouya does not bend, and so finally the fledgling must; he cowers back into a corner of the room, though his eyes remain fixed, hungrily, upon the scene.

It is over far too soon. The taste of Sawada’s blood fills his mouth like a strong wine; he swirls it around, savors the sensation of it slipping down his throat, swallow by swallow. When at last he has drunk his fill, he releases Sawada’s wrist, leaning back on his heels with a look of satiation.

For his part, Sawada smiles down at him lazily, almost indulgently, pressing a gauze pad retrieved from a pocket over his wrist. (He must have come prepared, which doesn’t surprise Kyouya in the least.)

Afterwards, when he has shown Sawada out, Kyouya finds his fledgling sulking in his room, curled up by himself upon his futon. At Kyouya’s appearance, however, he perks up somewhat. Languidly, he rolls to his feet and stretches, then pads closer until he can practically launch himself at Kyouya, who receives him with some bemusement.

His confusion quickly morphs into something much darker, though, as the fledgling begins to nuzzle him, making needy sounds and licking at the corners and insides of his mouth as though searching for the lingering taste of blood. Kyouya is in a genial mood from his recent meal, but even so, it gets to be too much for him—with a shuddery growl, he throws the fledgling off, pinning him to the floor with one hand to drag teeth over the side of his face, in a twisted parody of a kiss.

The fledgling emits a noise somewhere halfway between a growl and a groan. It sends a shock of arousal straight to Kyouya’s groin, and it’s only with an enormous effort that he manages to drag himself away, leaving the fledgling lying there, confused, almost forlorn.

Staring down at his fledgling, Kyouya swallows, hard, licking his lips. Not yet... he doesn’t want to do this yet. He can hold out for a while more.

But if he doesn’t find some other outlet for his frustration, he won’t be able to keep himself in check much longer. They must hunt, and soon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Under Cover of Darkness [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551516) by [Opalsong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opalsong/pseuds/Opalsong)




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